But the woman lifts her head, and it’s not Olive.
Of course it’s not.
Still, the image of her lingers like an afterimage burned onto my vision. The way she used to read in bed, one hand curled around her hedgehog pillow. The way her lips moved silently when she got to a part she loved, like she was tasting the words.
That same book is probably in her suitcase right now. Dog-eared and over-highlighted.
The light turns green.
I drive on.
But now everything feels like her.
The dog on the sidewalk—the same kind we saw on our engagement moon. She made me stop and pet it, cooed like it was a baby, then laughed when I pretended to be grumpy even though I secretly loved how she lit up.
The secondhand bookstore on Melrose. The donut box someone’s carrying down the street.
She’s everywhere. And I need to shut this train of thought down, fast.
I park on a side street, kill the engine, and just sit there for a minute.
My hands are still on the wheel. My heart is doing that slow, heavy ache thing it’s been doing for days.
I glance in the rearview mirror.
I look like shit.
I feel worse.
And for the first time, I let myself admit it.
I miss her.
Not just the sex. Not just the comfort. Not just the warmth of having someone in my house.
I missher.
Her laugh. Her questions. The way she looked at me like I wasn’t just a fucked-up mess of bad choices.
She made me feel human.
And I let her go.
I slam the car door harder than necessary when I get out.
Time to face the music.
Or in this case, the wedding planner.
***
Celeste’s office smells like lavender and quiet luxury.
The walls are a soft cream, the furniture minimal and modern, everything perfectly arranged—like even her succulents were hand-selected for symmetry. Her desk is spotless, except for a single open planner, a gold pen, and a tablet propped up with a calendar that looks more chaotic than mine ever has.
She looks up with a bright smile when I walk in, practically glowing. “Where is your lovely fiancée today?”
“She’s not coming.”
